Departure
by SmashQueen
Summary: The dead need not be burdened. This much he upheld even as his limbs grew heavy and his mind drowned in memories and revelations. Prompt fill.


Part of a collection of prompts that I decided to upload by itself.

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The dead need not be burdened. This much he upheld even as his limbs grew heavy and his mind drowned in memories and revelations. The Madam's last wish had been fulfilled, and with it, his purpose. She had known of the Infection returning, and that another Vessel would be there to rid Hallownest of it. The certainty of such was as strong as any of the old bits of knowledge that slipped through his mind, fractured as it was. The missing gaps could occasionally be filled with a little thought or exploration, although not as often as he would have liked as of late.

His mysterious little friend had come and gone already. Such a polite little fellow, but harboring far more potential than he would have guessed in their first meeting in the Temple. It seemed so long ago, and yet it hadn't been very long at all, had it? Traveling made time fly by so quick, and introspection made the minutes and hours pass by just as much.

All the time he had lost, and still had no recollection of, and yet he kept whiling it away.

What use had he, really, to keep poking around in moments he could no longer reach? To grasp for memories that would not come, and likely never would?

To live for far longer than most other bugs of Hallownest, and yet still able to take in its wonders instead of having his heart torn asunder by misfortune and tragedy at every turn. Truly a blessing to have been bestowed by the Madam, though a double-edged sword of one, to not even remember the sound of her voice.

And to have been an aid in her passing…

It did more than wrench his heart a little.

But, what had passed had passed. The Madam knew her future and had prepared for it. And for her, he would do anything she asked. Another certainty.

And now he was alone, on the shore of the source of the capital's namesake.

Quirrel reached a hand up, an old habit to tilt his additional mask, but aborted the motion. Monomon's mask was no more. All that was there was a bandanna, tying down his antennae and knotted under his chin.

His knees ached again. He had suffered through injuries and discomfort, true, but the encroaching signs of age had barely ever touched him in all his travels. It was only here, with no direction or meaning and missing his Teacher's mask did they begin to settle in. He doubted that he could rush past dangers as well as he used to. The swim across Blue Lake would undoubtedly wear on him if the dull throbs and weariness kept up, never mind a return trip to the surface.

...If he so desired, in any case. He was in no particular hurry to rise from his spot. The serenity of the lake was comforting, a rarity only on par with the natural springs dotted throughout the fallen kingdom. An eternal fount of quiet and peace, where only a few creatures lived, and even then they would not bother those at the water's edge. The perfect end to a long journey he didn't even know he had been on.

He had long-planned on coming here, back when he first – on his return trip – set eyes on the City of Tears. The mystery of where the relentless rain came from had intrigued him, and in turn had become a treat for himself on his way out. Leaving Hallownest with at least that enigma solved had seemed perfect.

Though now with the Madam gone, well… He was still on his way out, though perhaps not in the way he had once thought.

So inviting, those waters. They lapped so close to his feet, a gentle rhythm like no other. To curl up, embraced by the tranquil lake, watching his nail fade away. To allow his carapace to wear away and become part of the calm waters, and eventually part of the everlasting rain on the city's architecture, tapping against glass and stone. To be part of Hallownest, instead of taking a bit of it with him.

Yes, that seemed alright. The allure of travel still yet burned within him, but it was merely embers instead of the roaring flame it had always been. All he had were broken fragments of another time, and the moments he had made himself beyond the wastes. The bugs most important to him were gone, either by Infection, or duty, or the same old age that was creeping up on him even now.

A tiny, niggling thought prodded him through the haze of numbness. A stream of words that came to him unbidden from the past, though he knew not from where he had heard it.

_ A permanent solution to a temporary problem. _

Quirrel blinked, then ran over the words again. This _ was _permanent, yes. Death tended to be that way. He felt more and more like the age he was, but that wasn't the problem here, now was it? No. He simply…

...had no use left.

A part of him shriveled up inside to admit to that, even privately. He had been given a mission, and leaving Hallownest had been part of it. Losing his memories meant he needn't worry about the happenings in his home or Monomon's state as a Dreamer, or worse: being overcome by the Infection. He was safer that way, oblivious to the crisis that had gripped the kingdom and the resulting solution from the Pale King.

But it was all over now. There were none left alive here from before his leaving, and even if there were, they would be a stranger to him. His little friend was undoubtedly still running around, yet for how much longer? They, too, had a mission upon their shoulders and they would complete it. He was sure of it.

And then, that would be it. None left that he cared for, none that he wished to spend a moment or two talking with. Whatever the outcome, he would truly be alone.

If they came back before he was gone… Well, he didn't see why they would. They had said goodbye in their own way. No need to come back to this lonely little corner of the kingdom.

He was alone, ready for the inevitable. To forge a path forward yet again, regardless of what he had done and learned would take an effort, besides. An effort requiring far more energy than he had to spare.

_ ... a temporary problem. _

Another thought occurred; a spark of memory, flickers of color. A flash of white and acidic green. A vague comforting voice floating through his head. Three words uttered, isolated from a torrent, and no more.

_ ...to live, Quirrel. _

Quirrel swallowed thickly, then curled in on himself, shuddering, no tears left to shed, his eyes dried out. A wave of guilt crashed down upon him with all the force of a hail storm. His stomach roiled, his thoughts scattered. Confusion fought with previously solidified thoughts.

Most probably a glimpse into a moment before he left with her mask, but it hardly mattered.

It was not that the words were an order, for such a thing she would never make a command of. It was not that he had forgotten such a sentiment and nearly neglected it in his acceptance of his fate. It was a simple fact: Monomon wished him to have a life. A life after Hallownest.

And yes, he had certainly lived one. He had gone so far in his wanderings that the positions of the stars had shifted. Seen snow and desert lands. Impassible valleys and deep green gulleys. Buildings so tall they touched the sky, and burrows so deep that it took a full day's walk to see the surface again. And then she had called him home to carry out his final duty.

So why shouldn't he give into his weary limbs and allow himself to end his journey here, where everything and everyone he ever cared for was?

... _ temporary... _

Quirrel stared out at the lake for a time, turning over the words and memories. Time slipped away for awhile – for how long, he did not know and he did not care to – then, ever so slowly, he looked back at where his nail was buried tip-first in the sands. His thoughts came to a sudden halt.

"Oh..."

Sitting at the base of his makeshift marker was a pale, white flower. The petals were so thin, he could see the tiny veins running through them, like tunnels for the Stag Beetles. The flora seemed so fragile that a stray breeze would blow it to pieces, much like a dandelion in a gust of wind. Cautiously, Quirrel reached out and took the flower in his hands. He recalled having seen it before on the few occasions his little mute friend had attempted to grant him one. They had been insistent, but he had declined each time, stating how delicate the flower looked and his worry over ruining it with all the rough terrain and vicious husks running around. He hadn't wanted a heartfelt present to be destroyed so quickly.

A piece of history drifted through his mind subconsciously. The delicate flower was brought to Hallownest by Ze'mer of the Five Great Knights from her homeland, an impressive feat in itself considering the dangers of the wastes. It was known for its distinctive glow and frail nature, as well as the unique conditions required to make them bloom. To be bestowed one was an honor unlike any other, second only to standing in the presence of the Pale King. It was a symbol of affection, hope, and trust; an acknowledgement that the recipient was worthy of such things.

A stilted, sad laugh escaped him. His friend didn't seem like the type to take "no" for an absolute answer, and this here was proof of that. Did his friend even know the meaning behind this flower? From where had they obtained it to be in such fine condition?

Just by looking at it, something in his chest loosened. Not entirely; the knot was still there, and his concerns hadn't abated, but it was something. From a small parting gift, no less.

He gently followed the curve of one petal with a claw, chuckling sadly. "Very well, my friend. I accept."

If anything, he would gladly take this with him.

The nail, though, would remain.

It was supposed to be a sign, a mark of a departed wielder. More than that, however, it symbolized the end of an age-old journey; of an assistant fulfilling his Teacher's final wish; of the Dream of one of the greatest minds in Hallownest; of a weary bug who had found peace.

If a fellow explorer or adventurer happened to come across it and found it suitable, why, that would be just fine. The dead shouldn't be burdened with such things, after all, regardless of sentiment.

Why take with you what the living will find more useful?

No other nail he had seen in the whole of Hallownest had a design quite like this one. He suspected it a custom order, and seeing the effect it had on Uumuu, he was likely correct.

Just as likely that his Teacher had given it to him long ago.

Quirrel didn't really want to remove it, though it would be foolish to leave without it. The reanimated husks and infected creatures between Blue Lake and Dirtmouth were dangerous, and though the ones out in the wastes were less so from time to time, it was better to carry even a broken weapon than none at all.

Quirrel paused in his thinking, and looked down at the flower again. Its soft glow was somewhat relaxing. He certainly felt more at ease than he had earlier, if only just. It was a different sense of ease that settled upon his carapace as well, one that did not pull on him. Rather, it drifted, unwound, lifting the barest of a burdensome weight that had bored down on him since the Teacher's Archives.

Another gentle caress of the petals. A parting gift for the dead, or for the living. Flowers could be taken as either as the situation demanded it, yet the mere fact that it had been left now, rather than later…

Quirrel laughed silently, carefully lifting the flower to his mask. Such a remarkable specimen to have endured through the tragedies of this land. Wherever his little friend had found it was surely a sight to see. Whether a hidden cave or grove or a secret tightly guarded, he could only imagine.

The embers stoked briefly. A pang struck him. He shuddered, wrapped in emotions he could not name. He did not contemplate to name, beyond one: longing.

A moment stretched. Then another. And another. Quirrel focused on his breathing and the glow of the flower and the miniscule veins that ran through it.

There was not a single truth that Quirrel would ever shy away from. He was a seasoned explorer, and before that an archivist. Knowledge was, and always had been, his life. To ignore a sliver of reality was to deny the history and actions of the bugs who had come before him. To live in a delusional fantasy of one's own designs.

Therefore, when one sprang to mind, he chose not to bury it, but instead, accept it.

It was a simple truth, one that had been buried under the flood of realizations and resulting emotions:

Sorrow was temporary. Oh yes, it ached. It ached terribly, far more than his joints or his back. It was a gaping wound upon the soul that went deeper than any physical injury could. It distracted the mind and twisted the skewered, bleeding heart into disarray, submerging the afflicted in tides of chaos. To heed the mind when in such a state was difficult, a task of such magnitude that even the wisest of bugs would have trouble with. A taxing endeavor, yes, but not at all futile.

Eventually, as all wounds did, it would heal and scar over in time. Not quickly, not easily, but it would.

Quirrel chanced a moment to lift his gaze. The water still beckoned, but the words of the Madam were stronger. The glow of the flower reassuring.

He sat up, just a tiny bit straighter. It was odd, changing his mind after making it up so firmly. Despite not having the strength or a complete inclination to do so, he would do as she said. It would be difficult, perhaps as much as losing her the first time had, but he would push through. He could dodge the husks and creatures, run straight past them all until he emerged into Dirtmouth. There were sure to be abandoned homes with spare nails he could use. He was certain of it.

It wasn't quite the death he imagined, Quirrel reflected, but neither was it quite the end. For all his soreness of age emerging, he knew the Madam would want him to continue doing what he loved. To lift his head above churning doubts and breathe. His friend, likewise, seemed fond of him avoiding a more...lasting solution as well, if not by the flower's presence then the duration of which they sat with him on the bank.

It would not be simple nor easy by any means, but then, life never was. Anything worth having never was.

So, Quirrel rose to his feet, stretched his legs, and left Blue Lake behind.

A new beginning… It couldn't be so bad. With whatever years he had left, he would see what the world had to offer.

For her.

For them.


End file.
